I was in the middle of Alabama, silhouette illuminated by the golden hour’s subtle sunlight, engrossed in a conversation with my cousin, just catching up.

He’d asked me if I was any better, and I’d told him that “at least I know my triggers now.” 

And so the sun, in its dying fire falls,

Into the darkness of the night’s black realm.

The moon ascends into the sky, so stalls

I, to see its beauty and feel its calm.

But then come the stars, crossed in others eyes,

my hair bleeds purple when i sleep

dark, violet, translucent in the way that sausage fat boiling on the pan is

before it touches a towel

in the way that a ghost’s imprint is before fingerprints are left on the kitchen counter

It’s difficult,

The business of learning a new language.

Words slip away from you like a skittish bird

But you grasp for them

And try to give them some meaning.